“Order the airplane!” she shouted. “We’re leaving the country tonight!”

“Where shall I tell them to take us, sweetheart?”

“Anywhere they can’t get at me.”

“London, then?”

“Yes, London. Call the pilot right now, then come home and pack.”

“I’ll get right on it, my dear.” Charles hung up.

—

CHARLES DROVE the rest of the way, thinking hard. Everything was coming unglued. He’d known something like this might happen if anyone important ever got wind of her past doings, and apparently that was just what had happened. Half the population of San Francisco must have seen the program; his dealership would be doomed; nobody would buy a car from a man married to the murderess Barbara Eagle. What could have possessed her to submit to a television interview? He had to find a way out of this.

—

BARBARA RANG for her maid.

The woman appeared. “Good evening, Mrs. Grosvenor,” she said. “May I get you something?”

“Pack a bag, two changes of clothes and a trench coat. I’m leaving within the hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, then fled to the master bedroom.

Barbara left her to her work, went to the bar, and poured vodka into a glass—a lot of vodka. She knocked back half of it, then walked out onto the terrace. The sun was below the horizon, but the sky was still aglow, and the lights of the city were coming on as darkness approached.

Suddenly, she had it: they would stop in Santa Fe, and she would go out to Eagle’s house and shoot him and that actress wife of his. She would do it herself this time—no middleman. Then they could continue to London, and she could begin to rebuild her life.

“South America,” she said aloud. “Nobody knows me in Buenos Aires. I’ll take the city by storm!”

The maid appeared on the terrace behind her. “Pardon me, Mrs. Grosvenor,” she said sweetly. “Shall I pack some handbags?”

Barbara wheeled on her. “Can’t you do any goddamned thing? Don’t you know by now what I want and don’t want?” She was spewing vodka as she screamed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, then fled the terrace and went back to her packing.

—

CHARLES DROVE INTO the apartment building. He jumped out of the car, leaving the door open and the engine running. The doormen would take care of it. He waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive, then pressed the P button, and half a minute later the doors slid open.

He felt sick to his stomach. Now, just when he had nearly everything he wanted, she was coming apart. He knew what the flight to London would be like, and the days beyond. She could be the bitch from hell for weeks at a time, especially when she had had some upset, and this sounded like the upset to end all upsets.